


aftergold

by letterfromathief



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Royalty, F/M, First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, Hair-pulling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-02
Updated: 2016-08-02
Packaged: 2018-05-17 19:07:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5882140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/letterfromathief/pseuds/letterfromathief
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>a collection of AU oneshots, ratings as well as AU verse vary</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. spin the bottle | highschool rivals

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> @blondecrowns: okay... so like.... what about a high school one, and it's spin the bottle, and they 'hate' each other and obviously the bottle lands on them and they're both really 'UGH' about it (but secretly not, perhaps?) and then they're kissing each other and it goes all silent or some shit because everyone knows they hate each other, it's just an unfortunate coincidence that their friendship groups don't

She’s going to spin this bottle right in Killian’s face if he doesn’t stop sneering at her like she’s the last person he’d ever want to kiss. It doesn’t matter if it’s true, he’s the one that spun the damn bottle so he needs to stop acting like he didn’t bring this shit on both of them.

“This is awkward,” Ruby comments.

She probably thinks she’s whispering, but she’s drunk so she can’t see that this situation has sped right past awkward to make its final destination at Emma’s personal hell, one that she apparently shares with Killian. It makes sense because, after all, hell is supposed to be punishment.

“This is terrible, but I suppose I shall endure,” Killian says.

“Oh, fuck off, you overdramatic -”

Someone coughs, and David’s sneakers squeak as he flees the room. Emma narrows her eyes, steels her gaze and refuses to stare wistfully in that direction. She agreed to do this, and unlike him, she isn’t going to act like an overgrown baby. It’s just a game for people drunker than her to use as an excuse to hook up with random people, and a game for people like Emma to make the unfortunate mistake of playing along with.

“Get on with it,” Killian says as she moves forward.

She wets her lips. Here goes nothing. Come hell or high water or whatever other major catastrophe that director with the hard-on for them can make a movie about, Emma is going to go through with this damn kiss and then she’s going to crack Will on the head with that bottle for drinking the whole damn thing and giving them the idea in the first place.

“Think of it as practice,” Emma says.

“Practice?”

Killian startles, so affronted that Emma’s nearly distracted enough to laugh.

“Who says I  _ need _ practice? Swan, I -”

It doesn’t go quite like it supposedly should. When Emma shuts up his whining with her mouth, it’s awkward for too long because their lips don’t fit right, not when he’s still trying to complain. But, to his credit, Killian eventually does get the picture and starts to move his lips.

It’s not the best kiss. Emma isn’t sure what the best kiss would even be, but this definitely cannot be the best kiss she’ll ever get. She’ll never hear the end of it if she lets her hand wander to his collar, creep around his neck and pull him closer or his hands trek over her waist, squeezing, stroking or making  _ practiced _ motions that have her pull back for a breath -

One, two breaths shared between them and then he presses forward, questioning,  _ questing _ for permission that she can’t give - she’ll never hear the end of it if she meets his lips, if she does more than grant him what they’ve been telling each other will never happen for as long as she can remember.

Wasn’t she only just…?

“Emma,” he draws back to say her name, so quietly that she can only just hear the stress of it.

She’ll never hear him say her name the same way again.

“This is more fun to watch than I thought it would be,” Mary Margaret, of all people, says.

Of all the goddamn traitors...not including herself, because holy hell has she betrayed herself. Her hand is still grasping his neck and she’s feeling...things. Hot and overwhelming and  _ good _ things that are very, very bad.

“What was that practice for?” Killian asks.

She lets him go, rocking back on her knees. He looks desperate, his blue eyes so wide and searching her hazy gaze for an answer that Emma can’t give because it was a joke, it was a joke to distract him and now it feels too serious, too much like encouragement for this to happen again.

She kind of  _ seriously _ wants it to happen again.

“I can’t believe that we never thought of them kissing it out,” Mary Margaret says.

“But it isn’t like you can’t fix every problem with kisses,” Ruby says.

You  _ can’t _ fix every problem with kisses. You can’t.

Emma shakes her head to assert this, and see? She’s right because Killian’s nodding like he  _ agrees _ with Ruby. That’s a rift between them that’ll never be fixed. Especially when he pushes the bottle between them, crawls back to his spot on the floor and reminds them, “Emma spins.”

-

“It’s rigged,” she swears later when her lips feel chapped from kissing his for the third time, all her other kisses chaste things between her and Mulan, a hasty brush of lips between her and Aurora, and a cheek peck from David because she’ll kiss Killian three times but she’ll be damned if she’s going to kiss  _ David _ .

-

“I swear I didn’t rig it,” Killian says after the fourth kiss when she’s too breathless to even point out that he definitely did. Only he would do something so infuriating, so destined to have her frustrated beyond belief, wanting to pull her hair out - or better yet, pull his hair out from where her fingers have entrenched themselves, holding him to her.

-

“Oh god,” Emma says after they’ve given up the game for the evening, after everyone’s switched to beer pong and drunken table tennis,  _ after _ she and Killian have somehow found their way onto the darkened back stairs and  _ while _ Killian’s finishing up their sixth and final kiss on her chest, bruising and soothing and leaving heat tracks on her skin.

-

“Bloody hell,” he swears when there’s no good reason for them to kiss anymore - so they don’t, grinding against each other instead, the friction driving her closer to her personal hell becoming just a touch heavenly.

No, you can’t fix everything with kisses, but Emma does hate Killian a little less when she’s coming down from what she won’t allow to be the best orgasm she ever gets.

She won’t.

He whimpers as she grinds against him again, chasing the last of her high and riding him through his. She pants. She arches up against him. She grabs him by his neck and pulls him close enough to kiss, just close enough -

“Practice makes perfect,” he says.

He grins, a wild gleam in his eyes and see? She was right. She’s  _ never  _ going to hear the end of this.


	2. crush | bffs to lovers modern au

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> my crush’s name is right next to my best friend’s name and well, i should’ve seen this coming sooner- talking about my crush to my crush fml
> 
> @blondecrowns: and okay there has to be a best friends kissing for the first time one of them is leaving indefinitely to go overseas +++ they're both hopelessly in love with each other and neither wants to admit it and on a whim, as they're breaking apart from the hug, where she's burrowed her face into his neck, emma kisses him or he kisses her and then it's like ????!?!?!??? how can i leave now?????

“Look, don’t say anything just yet, I really need to just get this out.”

Emma holds the phone away from her ear for a moment, presses her face into the pillow, and screams until her head clears itself a bit. That done, she turns back to the receiver.

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. I can’t do anything. I can’t tell Killian. Like what the fuck kind of person goes ‘I know you’re leaving tomorrow but I’m in love with you and I have no idea how I’m supposed to function without you when I can barely function with you here? Oh, and by the way, if you’re wondering why I’ve been sitting on this for so long, it’s because I was too scared that you’d leave, but looks like you’re leaving anyway so what the hell, right?’”

Emma blinks, finding wetness in her eyes, and groans into the phone, self-loathing giving away everything she’s kept so closely guarded, cards held to her chest, desperately trying to keep them hidden from everyone’s sight including her own (because her deck is stacked full of hearts and she could shuffle them to no end, but it’ll always come up the same, hers resting heavy in her hands.)

Not like Ruby didn’t hazard a guess. Not that Emma hadn’t shrugged it off with a quipped, “It’s Killian,” and left it at that while the truth hung in the background, hung in those words themselves, “It’s Killian” echoing in her head every time she tried to place those feelings back where they should be, every time he made it impossible to do so.

She screams again, but this time it’s more like she’s stifling a sob and of course she has to be the person having a breakdown over the phone. She’s losing her best friend, she might as well lose her head as well as her heart. Honestly, who fucking needs them?

“Oh fuck,” she curses and drops the phone in her attempt to drop that line of thought. Picking it up again, she mumbles quickly, “Sorry, I’m just I’m sorry, Ruby. Fuck, I need to go.”

Why the hell did she think that would help? It’s like she’s looking for more ways to make it hurt. Ruby’s too good to her already, and now Emma’s fucked that up too. She’s going to have to endure Ruby’s sincere attempts at comfort; she’s probably already grabbing a pie from Granny’s and a tray of soggy French fries for Emma to complain about while eating. Emma laughs at the thought, a choked sound. She sounds like a dying animal. Something in her is definitely withering away with every passing second. It’s probably her self-respect.

She stares at the call ended for a second, but it isn’t until she’s turned her phone back on to write off a text of apology and a desire to be alone (for the rest of her life because that’s where it’s headed anyway) that she realizes that Ruby’s wasn’t the last call she missed, and that hitting call back hadn’t sent her to Ruby’s phone.

Killian probably needed help deciding what to wear to the airport or something equally ridiculous like what eyeliner would cover up his jet lag best.

Blackest black would’ve done the trick.

Her laughter is just this side of not actually being laughter. In fact, Emma’s first reaction is to throw her phone across the room, so she tries to not be herself for once because damages caused by admitting your love for your best friend  _ to _ your best friend (over the phone, even) isn’t covered in her insurance plan.

She takes a deep breath and looks on the bright side. At least she’s saved Ruby from this. She’s kept the mess contained and the inevitable explosion will only take Emma out in the end. That’s good. Ruby should outlive her. She has so much to offer the world: a bright smile, warm demeanor, the kindest of hearts, and an ability to actually deal with her feelings.

And not do whatever Emma’s doing right now, which is to say, turning her phone off completely.

She isn’t surprised that he already suspected she’d do that when the house line starts to ring before she can unplug that, too, turning to the voicemail before she can reach it.

“Emma, I…” Killian trails off.

The great bard himself unable to string a sentence together? Call the press, this is a moment they won’t want to miss.

She yanks the cord from the outlet before he can regain himself because no one need be witness to  _ that _ , and Emma has things to do. She can’t fall apart just yet. She’ll wait until after she has no one around to pick her up, it’s what she does best after all - or is it the other way around, no one around to pick her up so she just falls apart?

(He’ll be gone by noon tomorrow.)

Emma drops her cell phone on the table next to cord. It’s just so she knows where it is in case she needs to fuck up something else, maybe call Mary Margaret and tell her she deliberately fucked that date with Walsh because Killian invited her to a movie night at his place, replacing a possible shot at happiness with her toes tucked underneath Killian’s thighs and a bowl of homemade caramel corn pressed between her knees, Bruce Willis ‘yippee ki-yaying’ in the background, explosions lighting up Killian’s smile.

(16 hours and 12 minutes.)

She turns away from the table and heads to the hall closet. Her apartment could do with a deep cleaning and she didn’t buy those magic erasers just to sit around, collecting dust.

She starts with the ugly bird clock, not because it’s the dirtiest thing in her apartment, but because there’s that part of herself - the one part that doesn’t want to just cut and run (and carve, carve her heart right out of her chest so it’ll stop pounding with each ticking second that he hasn’t shown up at her door) - that enjoys the pain of counting down the moments until he’s gone and she doesn’t have to worry about her poorly timed, poorly worded, unplanned and fucked confession.

She starts with the ugly bird clock - a gift from Mary Margaret - and ends up unplugging that from the wall, too. The ticking stops, her whole apartment goes quiet and she lets herself soak in it while she sweeps, vacuums, soaks the rags in Pledge and starts at the wood floors.

Mary Margaret hums while she cleans, and since Emma’s trying to adopt that serenity right now, she starts that, humming and only stopping for a ragged, panicked breath here or there in between, a moment to blink away the tears from the fumes (and the other ones, those too.)

Emma only stops humming for the sound of her doorbell ringing, followed by rapid, desperate knocking, not unlike the beat of her heart, desperate to wrench open the door, desperate to wrench itself free from her chest and make a run for the hills. She’s not stopping it. It can go if it wants. It can just  _ go _ .

The doorbell rings again and she’s still kneeling in the same spot, gloves soaked with the scent of lemons, limes, and oranges (oh my). The doorbell rings again and it sounds remarkably like the clock she unplugged.

The one above the stove is still working. Has it really been two hours?

A fragment of thought shakes itself free. Killian’s apartment is only a twenty minute walk from hers, but he had to go get some things from Will’s upstate, say goodbye to Marian and Roland, who probably wouldn’t let him leave, not without at least three bedtime stories and a crooned lullaby. They’d planned on seeing each other tomorrow for that very reason. Killian didn’t “want to leave them bereft of my company, but you can monopolize my last hours, don’t you worry, Swan.”

The doorbell stops ringing.

Emma’s head, however, does not.

She starts to stand up and head towards the door, but what is she going to do with that? Let him in? Good joke, but she isn’t interested in making herself its punchline. Instead, she takes her turns back to the kitchen and slips off her gloves, leaving them hanging on the edge of sink.

Cleaning isn’t going to help her now, not when her hands are starting to shake even though she’s balled them into fists, nails digging curves in her palms, and her chest constricting with the silence. Emma forced her own hand, laid all her cards out on the table (a flush, four of a kind, full hand - it doesn’t matter anyway, she’s lost.)

And she didn’t even realize she was doing it, why is even expecting herself to work through this?

Oh, right, she’s not, because she’s already moving towards her bedroom, ready to lock herself in, shut off all the lights and pretend that there was never any knocking at her door.

She’s all up for this pretending thing, pumped for it in fact, but there’s avoiding the front door and then there’s pretending Killian isn’t rocking in the branches of the tree outside her apartment and knocking at her window. Racing across the room, she fumbles over unlocking the rusty clasps.

“Are you trying to break your neck?” Emma demands as he climbs inside, not even a question really because obviously that’s what he’s doing. She knows she’s a fucking mess who unplugged the phone and didn’t answer the door, but seriously he doesn’t need to meet her toe for toe in that category.

“I’m so glad that worked. You have no idea how many times I got lashed in the face by those branches as I was climbing, you really need to trim your tree.”

His cheeks are lined with pink branch shaped marks, his ears pink with something else, and his eyes are wide and blue and trying to find new depths in her own.

Emma looks away.

“I’ll put it on the list,” she says.

Killian falls silent as he looks around her room. She knows he notes the unplugged phone, the clock resting on her bed, her cell phone resting on the table. But he doesn’t say anything about it.

If she was expecting some kind of nervousness on his part, she doesn’t see it in the way her focuses in on her again and questions, “So what else is on this list?”

“What list?” Emma asks.

Honestly, if she hadn’t already fucked up so badly, she’d be calling herself an idiot. But that response pales in comparison to the reason he’s standing in the middle of her room with leaves clinging to his jacket and a single twig in his hair.

“The one our lovely Mary Margaret must’ve left resting on your counter the last time she inspected this -” He crooks his fingers around the words, “Hovel. It smells like lemon and pine in here.”

“That’s Pine Sol and Pledge for you,” Emma says but her heart’s not in it, and what a fine time for it to finally make its escape. She could’ve used that earlier.

He nods and hums agreeably.

Emma nods, too, and it amazes her that she’s held up this well so far. She’s doing great. Doing just swell.

He makes a step towards her and she jolts, swaying forward, curses in her head and an audible, “Fuck,” when he grabs her before she can stumble any farther.

“I suppose I should say thank you, but I’m not feeling very grateful at the moment, sorry,” Emma says quickly because she’s two seconds away from falling to pieces, her deck of hearts spilling out from between her fingers, tears spilling down her cheeks and into the crease of his neck as she presses there.

“You smell like tree,” Emma mumbles, helpless to keep from sounding as choked up as she feels, stupid to even try.

“Aye?”

She nods into his neck. He mutters something but she can’t hear it and she makes no moves to ask for clarity. She knows what the next thing out of his mouth will be anyway because his arms have come up around her and he’s rubbing soothing circles into her back like he always does, if you can count always as the two times she’s sobbed against his skin: Lily’s phone call and Anna’s wedding.

Killian will want to comfort. He’ll try to find anything to say to ease the ache in her chest, but she doesn’t want him to lie and as fucked as her lie detector gets around him, it’ll crush her to hear the lie, “It’ll be okay,” whispered into her skin.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

She was waiting for the lie to crush her, good on him to surprise her and hit her with the truth instead. He’s bested her. She can’t count all the times he’s done it, but this one takes the cake.

Emma tries to draw back, tries to place as much distance as she can when he’s standing in her bedroom, but as she lifts up, he looks down and of all the goddamn expressions to be on his face, of all the looks he can hurt her with, he chooses the one that always leaves her caught, the one where it’s like the sun is shining out of her ass and he’s trying to figure out just how that’s possible, the one that makes her feel unreal, like she’s more than what she is.

And then Killian kisses her and it’s like her face isn’t wet with tears, like he isn’t leaving tomorrow - it’s like he loves her and he’s trying to figure out why she didn’t know, why she didn’t realize it the moment he climbed through her window, the moment he forced her to binge every ship related show on Netflix, the moment he forgave her for clotheslining him into the water in her haste to catch her bond before he took off into the horizon -

Or maybe it’s just wishful thinking, maybe it’s just -

“Gods, Emma,” he says, jerks her forward so they’re pressed belly to belly and kisses her again.

Maybe it’s all of those things and something more that she can only grasp at like her fingers at his shirt, at his side, at his neck as she kisses him like she didn’t know, how could she know, how could she know that he meant every word, every teasing remark, every touch, every careful glance -

She pulls back, breathing so heavy that she isn’t sure whether she’s having a panic attack or an adrenaline rush. There are words pressing at her teeth, but she’s had her fill of emotional outbursts, and begging him not to leave doesn’t seem like the right response.

It’s the one she wants to make, but it isn’t  _ right _ .

Killian sways backwards a bit so she’s the one keeping them both steady, which makes no goddamn sense in the face of his smile.

“My name’s next to Ruby’s in your phone?”

“You know it isn’t. Ruby’s is under her actual name. Yours is Captain Peanut Butter.”

His eyes crinkle around the edges as his smile deepens. “Call back mistake, then?”

“Mistake?”

Killian’s eyebrows crease together. In a rush he says, “Not a mistake. Bloody hell, I -” He closes his eyes, but she can see them move behind his eyelids like he’s searching for the words in the dark.

“I need to kiss you again,” he settles on, opening eyes, and slides in with the perfect follow-up, “But that should probably come after the admissions of love and the declarations of coming back as soon as I can, hell, I’ll come back next week if I can make it work.”

She wants to say something clever and not stupid but all she can settle on is a delighted cry - an actual cry; she blinks back tears again. So much for no more emotional outbursts.

“I love you, Emma,” he says, so easily, like he’s said it a million times before.

She’s thinking he has, but she’s heard her own so many times that she stopped herself from hearing his. Self-preservation gone wrong. Self-preservation going so far as to not recognize what’s staring her in the face.

“And I will be back as soon as I can.”

“Promise?” she asks.

She sounds like a child when she says it, is unsurprised when it makes his cheeks fill up with laughter, is only a bit surprised when he releases her waist, grasps her hand and takes up her pinky with his. She’s completely astounded however when he draws their joined fingers to his mouth and kisses her knuckle, staring at her intently as he says, “I promise.”

A lot of words draw to mind, but he’s said the most important ones, so now it’s her turn.

“Look, don’t tell Ruby I called you instead,” she says.

He chuckles, so amused that she can forget her cheeks are streaked with tears and that she left a bucket of dirt on the floor of her kitchen for another moment - or two, or maybe that can wait for as long as he wants it to, as long as he wants to keep smiling at her and winding his arm around her neck, threading his fingers through her hair and pressing his lips to hers.

She can even forget he’s leaving, can forget her own name when his mouth moves over hers and he draws a sigh from her lips (draws his own cards from his deck, and they’re all coming up hearts, and it doesn’t matter anyway, they both win.)


	3. & | rival royalty au

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Emma breaks into his room with only one thought in mind.
> 
> Or perhaps it’s two, or three or -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> some kind of Princess!Emma/Prince!Killian AU; @bluestoplights requested rival royals smut and this somehow happened?? IDK. a little late fic for cs au week day 4: complete au

She barely gets a glance at the papers or a chance to make out the faint lines drawn into the page before dancing yellow and white light, the reflection of torch flames off the stone walls, filter into the room through a growing crack in the door. She drops the papers to the floor, not sure what she’s going to do when she turns around but knowing she has to.

There’s no other way out.

Trapped, the words get trapped in her throat when she turns to see Killian has braced himself against the door, tugging at the open collar of his shirt, his eyebrow lifted in a question, his mouth curled in a smirk.

“I don’t suppose we need to stand on ceremony right now, do we, your Majesty?”

He lilts her title, holding the syllables longer than necessary. She places her hands on her hips, ignoring the slight tremble in them as she curls them into the fabric of her pants, and she glares at him.

“No, we don’t,” she says, dropping his title from her reply.

 _Prince_ Killian acknowledges this with a nod of his head and a quick smile.

She takes a breath as he kicks back from the door and steps fully into the darkened room. He looks to her as he closes the door behind him, and it isn’t that she’d think he’d try to stop her from leaving that keeps her rooted to her spot, but that he looks at her like he’s trying to puzzle out far deeper meanings in her appearance than the obvious.

“This isn’t what I expected of you,” he remarks.

“What? Clandestine meetings in the dead of night surprise you?”

She lifts an eyebrow to emphasize her disbelief, expecting far more than the dark chuckle he gives her. His reply is less riddled with sarcasm, an edge of tension to it when he asks, “Is this a meeting? I thought this was you breaking into my room while your lovely personal guard kept my attention.”

She laughs a bit and recovers, if a bit uneasily. Nodding, she says, “Ruby _does_ know how to keep someone’s attention.”

“Right,” Killian says succinctly.

His eyes narrow slightly and he starts to step towards her, tilting his head like he’s watching for her retreat. Emma stands her ground, allowing him the fading distance between them. He’s a mere foot away from her when he stops, lightly swaying into her space.

“A princess breaking into the bedroom of her neighboring kingdom’s prince?” He lifts an eyebrow. “Someone might get the wrong idea. Clandestine meetings go one of two ways, Emma. Which one is this?”

Killian presses into her and they’re not touching but she can feel the heat radiating off him, how it seems to envelop her, drawing her in. Her feet feel unsteady beneath her, no longer rooted, and she shifts forward while he does the same, meeting him toe for toe, hand for hand as he takes hers in his and tangles their fingers together. The cool metal of his rings and the warmth of his palm are as conflicting on her senses as the look in his eyes.

“Hmm?” he prompts her but still she has no words for him, so he asks, “Which is it, Emma? Have you come to kiss me or kill me?”

There’s a sober note to his voice, Killian’s question is _sincere_ and she’d burst out laughing if the question was any kind of funny, but it isn’t given how their lands have only been at peace for a decade now, not long enough for anyone to forget, not them, _especially_ not them.

This was a bad idea, a stupid idea to have Ruby distract him while she searched out his proposal for the rebuilding of the bridge between the eastern and western borders of their kingdoms, respectively. Both a symbolic and purposeful arrangement, allowing for “trade, communication, the spreading of culture”... _and_ a clear show of trust: _we’re not burning bridges anymore_. And yet, Emma’s realizing that she’s put that at risk, coming here, and all for a petty desire to not be caught off guard by a simple proposal.

It isn’t _just_ a bridge, and yet it is, too, and she’s risked everything just to see whether he’d build his from the ground up. With wood? With stone? Embellished with the same gems she feels brushing her knuckles as he squeezes her hand in his?

She trembles a bit, the touch of cold beneath her chin unexpected as he lifts it with his hook so he can catch her in the deep blue of his gaze.

“Emma?”

She feels unbearably foolish because if Killian thinks she’s come to kill him, then the same could be said for him, for the way his hook strokes beneath her jaw, gentle enough to belie its deadly edge. They both know what he’s capable of; he and his brother didn’t take their kingdom out of their uncle’s hands without staining their own, and his hook is both the consequence of that and the reason for it.

But she hasn’t come for that, and he understands, humming softly, “A kiss it is, then,” although he doesn’t make a move.

If breaking into his bedchamber was a bad idea, this is fundamentally worse. She’s given it a thought, yes, what it would be like to kiss him, but it’s always been followed by a second thought and a second thought is always this: it could be something she’d truly want, and that is exactly what she doesn’t need.

She swallows though, finally finding the words amidst all her thoughts - firsts, seconds, and all.

“A kiss it is,” she echoes.

She tugs at their joined hands and he goes down, meeting her lips, at first gentle and then all at once burning, bruising even as they both settle into the meeting of tongues and teeth - if the vibrating in her bones can be called settling at all. His hook finds its way from her chin to her back, and he pulls her into him, their bodies meeting, feet stumbling together but lips never parting, not for a breath - she takes her inhales from his exhales - and not for a second thought.

Third thought comes after, when they part and she stumbles backwards, panting slightly. Third thought is this: that want and need feel very much the same when Killian stares down at her, finding something in the shape of her lips, perhaps, or the color of them maybe, that keeps his gaze.

“You haven’t come to kill me, you’re sure of that -”

She bridges the gap between them again, slipping her hand free from his to haul him to her by the gaping collar of his shirt. Nipping at his bottom lip, she says, “This isn’t an assassination.”

He lights up at that, grinning ear to ear. She seeks his lips again, but he draws back, chiding, “So, you’re only trying to distract me from the fact that you have my bridge sketch crushed beneath your boot.”

She can’t figure how he noticed when his eyes never left hers from the moment he entered the room, but she drags him against her again, noses bumping hard and gasps, “Or maybe I’m just trying to get in your pants?”

He groans at that, says, “You could’ve just asked instead of throwing Ruby at me and sneaking into my chambers.”

“For the proposal or…?”

A silence falls between them interrupted only by a slight chuckle as Killian winds his fingers in her hair, brushing his lips against the corner of her mouth, her cheek, his tongue licking out against the shell of her ear and his breath caressing her intimately, a shiver leading far and away, down, down, down to where she’s starting to ache.

“Or,” he answers.

Fourth thought hits her with the same force of his nose hitting her neck as he lays a line of kisses along the collar of her shirt - fourth thought being that “or” encompasses too much, the heat of his lips on her, the weight of his hand on her neck, the reality of this moment, of all the moments that led up to this - the war, the bloodshed, the years she wanted nothing more than to wish his land from existence the same way she could wish a cool drink into her palms - and the ones to follow.

“May I see the proposal?” she begs, because “or” is too much and second thought’s come back to haunt her. This is _exactly_ what she doesn’t need.

The question jolts him. He lifts his head from nosing aside the neck of her shirt and stares at her. His eyes are dark, a shade of blue that’s almost black. She tries not to get lost in those depths, looks away while she leaves the circle of his embrace.

He doesn’t hinder her from crouching to gather up the papers wrinkled from their stumbling feet. Emma straightens, papers in hand. What she assumed earlier to be the drawing of the bridge, she finds is a far different sketch when she surveys the entire page.

It’s a ship through the lens of a scope, its sails waving in the breeze, and although the point of view isn’t familiar, the subject itself she spent hours pacing on the trip.

“This isn’t” - she glances up from the pages to stare at him in confusion - “This is my ship.”

He lifts one corner of his mouth in a half-smile. “She looks rather majestic from far off. A vision, truly.”

“This isn’t your proposal,” Emma says, her fingers curling around the edges of the paper.

She can just make out the next sketch of a smiling woman with dark curls, her pointed ears peeking out between them. This feels personal, this piece of him, and the way his hand obviously trembled when he drew the curls against her forehead, the darker lines speaking of frustration with the dimples in her cheeks. He doesn’t stop her from flipping through the pages, finding more sketches of people, of places she’d only heard whispers about - the field where their former king made his last stand _and_ Persephone’s fountain said to perpetually pour free the waters of the Styx. At the very last page, she finds the bridge. She offers him the papers and he takes them, leaving her side to place them back on the desk she found them on.

“That’s what you truly came here for, right?” Killian asks.

He sounds tired now, and although it’s late and that’s to be expected, the way he kissed her betrays the true source of his exhaustion, that it isn’t fatigue in his body, but the question itself and her answer.

It would be so easy to say yes and make her retreat, but Emma’s never been great at lying, seeing the truths and falsehoods in her own words just as easily as she can see them in others. And the truth is, she didn’t come here to take more from him than a bridge’s sketch. She didn’t come here to see his smile reflected in his mother’s face or to learn that infamous field has buttercups growing between the grass.

She broke into his room, no intent of breaking into him as well.

Because - and here’s second thought again, but with a twist of fifth - that could be _everything_ she wants, and if she lets this go any further, it could be _everything_ she needs.

“What I came for,” she starts. She shakes her head, shaking the words free, “was the proposal.”

“You didn’t trust that it’d be something you’d like,’ he surmises. With a sigh, he reflects, “Great way to start building bridges, love.” He shifts, standing straighter, and gestures with his hand, “So, you have your proposal.”

“I have it.”

He stares at her as she steps up to him.

“And?” he finally asks.

 _And_ is more than _or_ and perhaps that’s too much but first thought comes again, what would it be like to kiss him, and now that she knows, Emma lets the question slip free.

“A kiss?”

He answers her by tracing his thumb along her jaw, wrapping his other arm around her again. Her eyes flutter shut the moment he starts to lean in so she doesn’t see the way he stares at her, can only feel his gaze as hot on her as his lips when he slants them over hers.

There’s a softness to the kiss that wasn’t there before, the urgency faded. Before he was seeking, but now she feels found. She sighs into him and all thought gives way to feeling, to heat, friction, and the delicious curl of desire up her spine.

It doesn’t matter who makes the first move, just that it’s made and he dives down, resuming his earlier path down the collar of her shirt, where he tugs it aside with his teeth, the loose fabric hanging at her shoulder and giving him easy access to the crevice of her collarbone where he places a line of kisses, sucking hard when he moves lower.

He kisses right over the scar above her breast, the only physical reminder of the blade that nearly took her life, and rises again to kiss her lips just as reverently.

She begins to rock against him, not surprised when he rolls his hips to meet hers and still she gasps at the weight of him. She realizes as he kisses her that he has no plans to do more than that, and she’s fine with that, with just the kiss of his hips against hers.

It’s what she came for, after all.

Breathless, still she keeps her mouth on his. He’s the one that retreats, breathing harsh and ragged as he demands, “Kiss me or kill me, Emma, which is it?” He traces his tongue over her bottom lip again, and it should be soothing but it feels anything but that, like a tempest building beneath her skin. He kisses her again for only the length of a breath, brushing his mouth over hers, and rasps, “You could end me with a kiss.”

She breaks at that, grinding against him fervidly, seeking the tempest. His hand squeezes her waist hard enough to bruise but it only adds to the storm, and she cries out when the hard ridge of his erection hits her just right, lightning striking behind her eyelids, setting fires in her veins.

He doesn’t stop moving against her and the pleasure never gets a chance to settle before she’s peaking again and his mouth is moving against her chest, leaving red in its wake until finally he bites down, a low moan erupting from him when he follows her into the storm.

Her body comes down ever so slowly, but clarity returns almost immediately and as he drags his head from her chest to press his forehead to hers, she says, “I suppose now wouldn’t be a good time to tell you that your bridge serves no functional purpose and would be a complete crap idea.”

He doesn’t open his eyes, but a smile softens his features. She scrunches her nose at that, fighting a losing battle with a smile of her own.

“Well, I’ve shown you mine, perhaps you should show me yours.”

She closes her eyes too, and nods, nose brushing his. His lips almost to hers, she replies, “Maybe I should.”

“To building bridges, then,” he says, and nudges her lips with his, sealing it with -

A kiss.


	4. all up on your frame | post 5b domestic smut

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> an anon requested "hair pulling" and i finally came through with it

He spends so much time between her legs that she starts to fear that he might pass out from it, but he swallows her worries in kisses that make her toes curl and roughly chuckled words, “I’ve spent quite some time holding my breath in far less pleasurable circumstances than this.”

“So you’ve been well-trained, huh?”

There’s a flicker in his expression, a momentary freezing before the smirk and his replied, “Something like that.”

Something like that is how she rolls her hips to meet the thrusting of his tongue and he just keeps going like breathing is overrated and he’s going to prove that lungs aren’t meant for air at all. She does it again, the first time because she can’t help herself when he slides away, beard scraping the sensitive skin of her thigh, laying kisses on the dimple of her knee - just grabs for his head, nails scrabbling at his scalp and pulls him back, begging him wordlessly to place another kiss there, another stroke of his tongue, sweep the love he feels for her across her skin.

When he sweeps apart her thighs this time, he doesn’t come up until she’s come twice and his face is soaked in her, enough that they both laugh at his state, hers giggles and his rough chuckles in between deep breaths.

The second time she does it, she _really_ doesn’t mean to, but here’s the thing, she _really_ likes it when Killian rubs his thumb along the inside of her wrist. He has a thing for the flower that always has his fingers reaching for it, and she has a thing for the pressure of his touch that always sets her trembling, a wet heat pooling between her thighs and making her shift uncomfortably and imperceptibly (hopefully.)

When he presses her against the sink, it’s no different. She’s trying to wash dishes, but he wraps his arms around her and she nearly cracks a plate in her haste to turn off the faucet - he’s done this before and they ran out of towels trying to clean up the spill.

“Seriously?”

Without replying, he grabs for her hand right after, and she thinks he’s going to thread them together like he always does - or she always does, or maybe they’re just always reaching for each other (and hoping to never let go.) He takes her off guard when he presses his thumb to her wrist and starts to circle the flower and she just _crumbles_. Her other hand goes up and tangles in the hair at the nape of his neck, tugging hard and he bears down on her almost instantly, his breath hot at her ear, “Tell me what you want, love.”

She isn’t really able to get into specifics, her panted, “You,” enough for him to slide his hand past the band of her sweatpants and rub her clit through the underwear that she’s sure aren’t meant to be sheer, aren’t meant to cling to her this way - she’s practically soaked through them and she reddens with embarrassment and arousal because all he’s done is grind himself into her ass and circle her clit in gentle strokes.

Her hand is tight in his hair despite that and when she pulls hard, he pulls as well, her underwear tugged to the side so he can slide two fingers inside to fill her. She’s not nearly full enough but each time she tightens her grip in his hair, he pumps harder, thumb rubbing her clit haphazardly, pushing her towards the break. By the time she shatters and shudders around him, she’s ripped hairs from his head, a line across her belly from being pressed to the counter that’ll stay for a few hours.

Emma releases his hair, her arm aching from the strain, and after he slides out of her, she wheels around to face him. She’s on such a high, still orgasm hazy, but she doesn’t miss the flash of... _something_ across his face before he schools his expression into a satisfied smirk.

“Did I give you what you want then?”

She grabs his hands, guiding his slick fingers to her mouth. She holds his gaze as she takes first one finger and then the other inside, sucking each clean, flicking her tongue across the pads of his fingers like she would the head of his cock, the way he likes it, tongue tracing over the rounded flesh.

She pulls his hand from her mouth and licks the wetness from her bottom lip.

“Not nearly,” she says and pushes him back, and drops to her knees.

It’s really the third time that she actually means it, when he’s propped a chair up against their bedroom door like he’s trying to keep monsters out (and given how they’re prone to dropping in at all places in Storybrooke, it’s not a bad idea). She has her hands on the back of the chair to give her leverage as she rises, high enough that it’s just the ridged head of him catching at her entrance, and then sinks back down, almost backwards out of his lap because the angle makes her feel full to bursting, and with the way his eyes track over her breasts, his arm tightens around her, and his thumb stutters in its circles around her clit, she knows he enjoys the view.

She starts to move faster, a little more comfortable in the position. The rise and fall makes her breasts bounce against her chest, and the snap of his hips into her drives him deep enough that it drives the breath from her lungs. She grabs for his hair in retaliation, intent on bending forward again so she can suck and nip at the delicate skin of his neck, but he freezes and the phrase falls from his lips so fast that she knows it can’t be coincidence.

“Tell me what you want,” he says, voice hoarse and eyes glazed.

She falls against him, taking her own breath in the process, drawing a muffled grunt from his sealed lips.

“Killian?” she questions, but there’s no need for the answer. She puts two and two together quickly - “well-trained” - and the flush of heat in his cheeks and his haste to look away, only confirms it for her.

“Oh god,” she says, and she shifts forward, winding her fingers tighter in his hair.

And he responds just how he should, a whimper in his words, “Please, sweetheart, tell me what you want.”

“Fuck -” she can’t manage to find the words; she wants a million different things, has so many questions, but she can barely focus when she’s like this, let alone when he’s biting at his lip like he needs to give her what she wants, that he’d give her anything, anything she asks - “ _Fuck._ ”

She moans when he grinds against her, like they can get any closer than they are, and tugs one more time, lets him whisper, “Tell me what you want,” before she gives her answer.

“Look at me,” she says.

He does, swallowing sharply as he does so. She fights against the urge to follow the flushed column of his throat down to his chest, keeps her eyes on his while she rises again.

“Don’t turn away.”

His eyes never leave hers, not as she slams down on him, not as he starts to buck up against her, meeting her motions. Not even when her own eyes start to flutter shut as her ride takes her higher, the only thing grounding her the grip she has in his hair. He moves his hand to her waist, abandoning her clit, but she’s pulled so tight that she doesn’t need it anymore - she’s going to break any moment now.

His expression is raw and open, his eyes so dark and focused on her that she can’t even fathom what he’s seeing. A groan starts low in his throat and her own stressed sigh echoes it. She’s so close that she can taste the heat in the back of her throat and she doesn’t want to look away, but she tips forward, her head falling into the dip between his shoulder and his neck, and she can’t see if his eyes shut, but instinctively knows that it hasn’t, that he’ll give her what she wants even if she can’t confirm it.

Her orgasm is blinding - she presses her face so hard against him that her racking cries are muffled more effectively than if she’d been gagged. His doesn’t come until long after she’s given up on moving, after she releases his hair and her arms have wrapped around his neck. When he does, it’s with a quiet whimper, no more than a whisper of sound.

It takes forever and a year for them to move. He’s soft as he slips from her and she slides out of his lap, but he twitches at the slight brush of her hand when she uses his thighs to keep herself steady on her feet.

“You okay, Swan?” he teases.

She pinches his thigh in answer, pushing off him so she can stand straight - she’s thankful that she can do that given how weak her knees feel.

She offers her hand to him and he takes it, but only when he’s standing on his own. He guides her back to the bed, a solid presence against her that she’s _really_ thankful for as he keeps her from losing her balance. The sheets are cool against her heated skin and she rolls around in them, earning a chuckled, “Seeking to become the family dog?”

She stops just short of barking at him, but only because she opens her eyes as lies down beside her and sees the hesitancy in the expression. He’s waiting for her to ask.

“Want to tell me what that’s about?” she says, careful to keep her tone prompting instead of demanding.

He reaches for her face, pushing the sweaty strands of hair off her forehead and slides his thumb along the arch of her cheek.

Sighing, he says, “There was a woman who enjoyed a bit of play in the bedroom. She liked it when I gave her what she wanted, but sometimes I got off track. She found a way to keep me in line, and I guess I never really forgot.”

Emma nods but - “I’ve pulled your hair before,” she says in question.

This answer he’s slow to give, a beat passing before he says, “Aye, you have, but it’s never...there are many things I had to bite my tongue on before…”

Before _this_ , what they have in this bed, in this house, in any place (or time) they find themselves in. Before _them._ She gets it. She feels safe with him, too.

She presses her forehead to his, humming softly. He’s warm and she closes her eyes, enjoying the tender brush of his fingers along her cheek, his soft exhales.

She opens her eyes again long moments later and says, “You don’t mind, do you?”

He chuckles and draws away so he she can get the full weight of his disbelief. “Mind giving you what you want?” He tsks, shaking his head like she didn’t even need to ask the question. Which, yeah, she probably didn’t.

She likes to hear him say it, though, and he smiles as he confirms, “I don’t mind at all.”

She can’t contain her happiness at that, her face splitting in a smile that he mirrors. She’s about to kiss him, head dipping towards his when his face twists and he says, “But perhaps you’ll try to avoid ripping all my hair from my head? Unless you prefer me bald?”

He laughs when she pushes him away, an annoying series of chuckles that make her only lightly entertain thoughts of what he’d look like with a full body shave. 

“I’ll let you know when that’s what I want,” she retorts.

He’s still chuckling when he says, “I’m sure you will.”

-

It’s a Tuesday afternoon when she _wants_ again, when she tugs at his hair in what’s supposed to be a goodbye kiss, and he hastily tells David, “Actually, I need Emma for the day. We’re painting the basement.”

That they already did that doesn’t escape David’s notice, nor does Killian’s smug grin, but he’s good at the “putting fingers in ears, digging head into the sand, my daughter is not going home to have sex” face that she’s inherited and put to good use with him and her mother.

She doesn’t actually hear Killian say the words until he pins her to the closed front door and nips at the shell of her ear, prompting, “Tell me what you want.”

She almost doesn’t manage to say it, effectively distracted from her intent by the creeping of his fingers over her inner thigh, but when she gets it out -

-

Her arms tremble with the strain of holding herself up, but she doesn’t have to wait long before her head snaps back as he tugs at her hair roughly, his fingers almost knotted in it.

She gasps and shakes, practically babbles it, but he hears it all the same.

“Tell me what you want.”

He tugs her harder, pulling her up until her back is flat against his chest, and it’s nothing short of thrilling when she says it again, “Tell me what you want, Killian.”

He kisses the skin of her neck, tracing circles into her skin with his tongue.

“What are you willing to give?” he asks.

She doesn’t know what she’s meant to say to that, but she answers anyway.

“Everything,” she murmurs too quiet even for her ears. He winds his hand tighter, pulls at her scalp a little more and she says it louder, “Everything.”

“I _want_ everything, Emma.”

He bites at her neck, bruising her with his teeth, and she cries out, but not even the echo of her cry reverberates off her skin, off the inside of her head like his words do – his declaration resounding in the beat of her heart.

“I want you.”


End file.
